It's All in the Reflexes
by Lassar
Summary: Crossover. WitchbladeBig Trouble in Little China. Jack's hauling some dangerous freight, straight to Irons' warehouse. COMPLETE


Wing Kong Exchange  
  
Crossover Contest  
  
fandoms: Big Trouble in Little China, Witchblade  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: Jack Burton (Kurt Russell) makes his first delivery after the events in BTLC, not knowing he's got a very dangerous hitchhiker.  
  
The sun had set barely an hour ago, an event unnoticed by most behind the incredibly thick clouds. It didn't really make much of a difference in visibility. The rain had been coming down in sheets, thick enough to keep everyone with even the slightest amount of common sense in their homes and off the roads, since noon.  
  
Of course, that still left a few people that didn't know to get out of the weather. The lights of a semi truck punched through the darkness, moving faster than was prudent, given the driving conditions.  
  
"This is Jack Burton of the Porkchop Express, and I'm talking to whoever is listening. It's like I told my last wife, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides, it's all in the reflexes." The truck driver's delivery is strongly reminiscent of John Wayne. He is holding on to the C.B. with one hand, and steering with the other. He leans slightly over the wheel in an effort to see a little further into the murky gloom, giving lie to his statement about driving faster than he can see.  
  
Against the glare of the headlights, one can make out a pair of female chrome silhouettes sitting on the grill over the legend 'Hauling Ass'. The custom paint job on the side of the cab included a hog running and the words 'Porkchop Express'.  
  
Jack smiled as he passed a green information sign, New York, 30 miles. Soon he would drop off this shipment of electronics to Vorshlag Industries and call it a night.  
  
It had been a long haul from California, but the money had been too much to resist. An independent had to go where the work took him, he couldn't afford to be too choosy. Besides, after all the unreasonable things he had recently experienced, it would be nice to distance himself from the area and think about what had just happened.  
  
Not to mention that the cops were probably still looking for him. They tended to do that when supposedly respectable businesses went up in a ball of green fire, and people were being killed all over Little China. Too many folks had seen him, and a tall, muscular white man stuck out like a sore thumb in that part of town. Better to lie low for a while, and a city not noted at all for Chinese Black Magic was a great place to do it.  
  
Unfortunately for his plans, lounging between the junction of the cab and the freight Jack was hauling, was a creature out of legend. It looked somewhat like the unholy mating of an orangutan and a crocodile, long limbs covered in orange fur with a snout full of razor sharp teeth. It waited without regard for the weather, knowing that eventually the vehicle would stop, and it would feed.  
  
"You just take old Jack's advice on a dark and stormy night, when the lightning flashes and the pillars of heaven shake. Look that storm right in the eye and say 'Give me your best shot, I can take it."

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"Ian, I need you to go to our warehouse on Glover St. this afternoon. I am expecting a rather sensitive shipment. It may require special handling." The voice was smooth and cultured, a perfect match for the impeccably dressed blond gentleman sitting behind the mahogany desk.  
  
To one listening in, he sounded like a businessman giving orders to an employee. The truth was, Kenneth Irons had just told Ian Nottingham, his chief of security, that the shipment was hazardous or illegal, or both.  
  
"Would this be the shipment from your partner in California?" Nottingham made his bid for clarification obliquely. He was tall, clad in black from his trench coat to his combat boots, and possessed the quiet aura of danger that those who lived with violence seemed to always possess.  
  
"Yes, and I very much fear it shall be the last for a time. My associate has recently joined his ancestors. I have moved into his market as much as I have been able to, but Lo Pan was always good at keeping secrets. It will take me some time to gain complete control over his assets, but I do not mind. The challenge intrigues me." Irons leaned forward slightly in his chair, his pale blue eyes alight.  
  
"Do you plan to oversee the takeover personally?" Nottingham asked, already mentally rearranging his calendar and planning which security personnel to take with him on the trip. After seeing the surge of interest from Irons, he knew the answer, but wanted confirmation.  
  
"Of course. I have been working to tidy up some loose ends here. There are some things that require the personal touch, even in this day of electronic communication. I believe that the beginning of next week should suit admirably, so brush up on your Mandarin." Irons smiled, clearly looking forward to the trip.

"Luxing shouxu duo ban hao le ba?" Ian asked, a small smile playing about his lips.  
  
"No, I leave that to you. First I would have this shipment examined. It would have been easy for someone on that end to take advantage of the chaos and keep several of the more important artifacts from Itagaki's tomb." Irons curled one lip up in answer. Nottingham always did have a subtle sense of humor.  
  
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The warehouse district was almost mind numbing in its sameness. Each building had the same weather-beaten metal and wood exterior, peeling paint, and oddball piles of refuse. The only thing kept up on most of the structures was the number, probably more for the fire department's convenience than the delivery drivers, but at this point Jack would take what he could get.  
  
1111 Glover Street was the address he was looking for, and Jack had been trying to find it by comparing his position to the city atlas he had bought for the last twenty minutes. He had just about decided he had the map upside down when he finally stumbled across the street in question.  
  
The Porkchop Express eased off the road and followed the building to the back, where the loading dock waited. Jack backed the Peterbuilt up to the dock with the ease of long practice, and waited. After a few minutes passed without anyone coming out, he pulled on his horn.  
  
The guys were probably nice and dry somewhere, playing Mahjong or Go, or whatever they did on this coast. If they looked ok, Jack might see how amenable they'd be to letting a new guy in on the action. He was pretty good at playing dumb, he'd probably make enough off of them to pay for a nice hotel room in this overpriced city. He was tired of sleeping in the Porkchop, and he wanted a real shower.  
  
Finally the docking bay door rolled up, and the warehouse employees came spilling out of the lighted entrance. Jack hopped out of the cab, rain bouncing off the black Harley Davidson ball cap he was wearing. He walked to the back, the keys to the padlocks swinging on his finger.  
  
The crew was Hispanic instead of Chinese, but remarkably similar in attitude and efficiency. They began unloading the trailer, the banter flying almost as fast as the crates. Jack discovered they had almost no English, and he had about as much Spanish, so he gave up communicating anything beyond the basics.  
  
Not that he needed much more than that. They responded to his overtures with smiles, and Jack was starting to think he might have his 'in', when a blood-curdling howl split the night air.  
  
It was a sound Jack had heard before, and hoped to never hear again. He sent a glance heavenward that was filled with resigned irritation as he asked the question, "Why me?"  
  
Jack was starting to feel like the whipping boy of the gods. Well, the Chinese ones anyway. How else could you explain the fact that a warehouse crew in New York were being attacked by the Chinese answer to Bigfoot, the very creature he had left deep underground in San Francisco? You couldn't, not really. Or at least, nothing was coming to him.  
  
Sparing a moment to wish that Wang Chi was with him, Jack headed for the screaming.

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Nottingham parked in the front of the warehouse. He could see the light coming from the back, and realized that the shipment was already being unloaded. Whoever the driver had been, he must have been speeding even more than Irons had anticipated; he was hours ahead of schedule.  
  
Hopefully the shipment would match the manifest, since Ian had not arrived early enough to give special orders or to oversee the beginning of the unloading process. Any discrepancies would have to be answered, for Kenneth was anticipating the contents of each crate. He had been excited when agents of Lo Pan had finally discovered Itagaki's tomb in Northern China, and was ready to add another section to the Witchblade Chamber.  
  
Ian walked quickly through the huge building, his combat boots making no noise on the concrete flooring. Not that there was any need for stealth on his part, the crew was making enough noise to cover his approach, but silence was an old habit that he was disinclined to break.  
  
The first of the boxes, bound with twine and sealed with a large blob of red wax bearing the seal of the Chinese Customs Agency, came into view. Ian was reading the content listing when a shrill scream split the air.  
  
Every sense went on high alert. Could this be the trouble Irons had been anticipating? Nottingham slid around the corner, making sure to present as small a silhouette as possible. He disliked rushing into a situation before he knew what exactly was going on. It was like asking to be shot. Although he had not, strangely enough, heard any gunfire.  
  
The reason for the lack became clear once he moved past the loading bay doors. Fleeing in every direction were all the dockworkers who could get away from the long armed beast. Several had not been so fortunate, as their corpses mutely attested, lying in misshapen piles like broken dolls.  
  
Nottingham could see very little of the beast, other than blood- matted fur and the flash of teeth from a long snout, for the creature was moving too rapidly in its thirst for killing. From what he could see, and given the nature of the shipment, he wondered if it was a lesser demon, bound to the tomb that had been plundered. Or perhaps it was from a specific artifact that had been broken during transit?  
  
Whatever it was, the creature was attacking people on the Vorshlag Payroll, which meant that their lives were his responsibility. Ian drew the katana he kept strapped across his spine, the quarters too close and the bodies flying to fast for guns, and stepped nimbly around a falling body to stop the creature's strike with his blade.  
  
Steel bit into the hairy forearm, grating against bone and bringing a howl of pain from the beast. It's thin lips curled back and spittle trailed in thin rivulets from the cavernous mouth as it growled at the human who had dared to hurt it. Pulling the wounded arm back toward its chest, the beast lunged, his good arm out to grasp his new prey.  
  
Ian dodged aside, noting his opponent's speed. The demon was fast, but not as swift as he had feared. Unfortunately, the creature was smarter and healed faster than Nottingham had anticipated. The limb he had nearly hewn in two shot out and grabbed his throat. The only sign it had ever been injured was the blood still matting the strangely shortened line of hair.  
  
The grotesque mouth gave the impression of smiling in triumph, although in truth the muzzle was not flexible enough to allow the same kind of upward curve that a human would have. It lifted Nottingham off the ground by its grip on his throat, slowly choking the dark-haired assassin.  
  
Nottingham lashed out at the arm holding him with his sword, but the beast caught his wrist. It began squeezing until muscle and bone ground together and he had no choice but to drop the blade. The weapon landed with a clatter on the concrete, and even in danger of his life Ian winced at the thought of what the fall had done to the blade's edge.  
  
The creature began to pull on the arm while keeping a tight hold on Ian's neck. The odd angle of the corpses was becoming clear to him, the beast had pulled them apart with his bare hands. Nottingham tried desperately to kick out, but the demon's reach was far longer than his legs, and his efforts met only empty air.  
  
Air he was beginning to desperately miss. His lungs protested the lack quite vigorously. He could hold his breath for several minutes, and had been, but the amount of time he could do that and remain conscious was dependant on his level of exertion. Ian knew he would not waken if he should slip into the darkness that was eating big bites out of his peripheral vision.  
  
"Why don't you come over here and fight like a man," drawled a voice from just beyond the artificial lighting. Both word choice and intonation were pure classic Saturday afternoon Western movie.  
  
A tall figure stepped into the light. The man was in excellent shape, his muscles sharply defined. Other than that, he was not at all what Ian was expecting from someone who sounded like 'The Duke.' He was wearing a black ball cap over shoulder length blonde hair, a matching muscle shirt with a yellow logo that read 'Dragon of the Black Pool', and a pair of faded, skin-tight jeans tucked into knee-high buffalo hide boots.  
  
"What's the matter, you chicken? I killed your master, and I aim to take you out too." One hand was half behind his hip, the other pushed the brim of his cap back slightly like a cowboy thumbing his Stetson.  
  
His goading had the desired effect. The beast tossed Nottingham aside with the casual disinterest and ease of a child tired of a toy and rounded on the stranger.  
  
Jack saw his opening and took it. His hand came from around his back. In his grip was the black semi-automatic he had acquired in Lo Pan's warehouse for The Wing Kong Exchange. Giving the wordless war cry that he thought of as 'cool', Burton unloaded the entire clip into the howling orange beast.  
  
He watched in satisfaction as the creature dropped to the ground. Its hide was riddled with bullet holes, and showed no signs of getting back up. Just to be sure, Jack walked over and jabbed it with the barrel of his machine gun. When nothing happened, he stepped back and gave a cocky grin.  
  
"It seems like my job here is done. If you men will finish unloading my truck, I'll be riding off into the sunset." Jack turned his back on the creature to accept the accolades the surviving dockworkers were giving as they returned from the four corners they had scattered to.  
  
Nottingham watched from the ground as the stranger, who was apparently the driver of the semi truck, was patted and praised. His breathing was returning to normal, although air rasped through a throat badly bruised. His shoulder was dislocated, and he wouldn't be able to tell until he tried to reset it how much muscle and ligament damage there was. With a groan of pain trapped behind his lips, Ian struggled to a standing position.  
  
He got a firm grasp on the wounded arm and closed his eyes to help focus. With a twist and a sickening pop, the bone went back into the socket. The burst of pain that accompanied the movement almost sent him back to his knees, but afterward the shoulder felt a great deal better. It wouldn't be good for much until it healed, but at least now it could do so properly.  
  
Motion from the corner of his eye pulled Nottingham's attention away from the pain in his shoulder. At first he thought it a trick of the light, but the creature twitched again, like a horse shaking off flies. As he stared in amazement, the demon's wounds began to visibly heal.  
  
Clearly sword and gun was not the key. Or at least, not when applied to center mass. Ian wracked his brain, trying to remember any bit of Chinese demon lore that he could. There had to be something they were doing wrong.  
  
The only two things he could remember were that they were vulnerable to blessed wooden weapons, like peach-tree swords, special scrolls that bore an abjuration prayer, and anything with their name on it. If he attached a strip of paper with the demon's name, or lacking that a very specific description, to one of his throwing knives, it should banish the creature back to his own dimension.  
  
Slightly awkward, Nottingham used his off hand to pull a strip of paper off the cargo manifest. He used a pen to write the Chinese characters for 'the demon that has traveled far in the name of vengeance'. The calligraphy was impossible to achieve with a ballpoint pen, but he could only hope that the handwriting was not going to be graded.  
  
The demon slowly stood, his wounds healed. Ian franticly wrapped the paper around the hilt, scraping a little of the sealing wax off of a crate to secure the ends. He hoped it would hold; he was out of time. The beast was stalking toward the cluster of men, just a few feet away.  
  
He drew his arm back to throw the dagger and hissed at the pressure it put on his wounded shoulder. Even though it was on the other side of his body, the muscles screamed in protest. Nottingham ignored the pain and threw the blade with all his might. He was going to embed the blade in the back of the thing's skull. One way or another, this should put an end to the situation.  
  
The demon heard him or sensed movement behind. It was hard to say which, and not really relevant. All that mattered was, the creature dodged to the side. Nottingham watched in horror as the knife tumbled end over end toward the group of men he had been trying to protect.  
  
With an ease that spoke of long practice, Jack reached out and plucked the speeding blade from the air before it could hit his forehead. He sent it back just as fast as it had come, this time striking the demon at the base of it's neck.  
  
The demon's eyes met Nottingham's, both wide with surprise, and then the creature disappeared with a clap of imploding space. The knife dropped to the pavement with a clatter, demon blood smoking still on the blade. Ian looked from the knife to the man who had just thrown it, his eyes plainly asking how he had done it.  
  
"It's all in the reflexes," Jack said with a depreciating grin.


End file.
